The Oldest ResortKathleen Glassburn

Francie’s
apartment on Capitol Hill is ten long miles from Brian’s West Seattle waterfront
condo. The big question: When will he ask her to move in? She’s started
packing.
Snuggled on his hunter green leather
sofa, pretending to watch the second game of the World Series, she opens her
eyes wide, forcing herself awake. Brian tips and settles his Dodgers cap,
absorbed in the action. Finally, seventh inning, a break while the crowd sings “Take
Me Out to the Ballgame.”
Nuzzling her neck, Brian whispers, “How’d
I get so lucky to find you?”
“Beats me.” Francie almost says, If
you’re so lucky,how come we’re not living together? In another
month his divorce finalizes. Will that
get the ball rolling?
Cousin
Lisa has been “shacked up,” as Francie’s father calls it, for almost a year. It’s
1978. This happens! Still, Francie’s stomach clenches. The staunch Catholic
Shaughnessys all but ostracized Aunt Lorraine every time she, in her words,
pulled a “shenanigan.” Now, shaking their heads, they repeat, “Cousin Lisa’s on
the same track. Like mother, like daughter.”
Speculating about the family’s
reaction to her behavior, Francie blushes recalling last night in Brian’s water
bed, him mumbling, “Good to be with someone who likes it.”Was Suzanne cold and
unaffectionate? With remarks like this, she has pieced
together an idea of Brian’s marriage.
After the game ends, Francie and
Brian stand, elbows propped on the railing of his deck, watching a ferry make
its way toward Seattle. “The guys are planning a party weekend. You’ll go with
me, right?” His even features lift expectantly.
Francie straightens.”Where?” Dinner
and a movie with his friends—fine—but two whole days?
“Todd Caldwell, you haven’t met him,
a FIJI.” All Brian’s friends are frat brothers. “He bought a hotel near
Westport in a place called, get this, Tokeland. It’s the oldest resort in
Washington. We’re having a bash before Todd starts the remodel.” Brian’s dark
eyebrows scrunch together. “He left his father’s law practice and Georgie quit
selling pharmaceuticals so they could do this together.” Brian works for his
father’s construction company.
“Georgie?”
“Todd’s wife, Georgia
McBride...McBride Drugs was owned by her family.” Walgreens has recently bought
out this local chain.
Brian studies Francie. “You okay
about the weekend?”
“As long as I’m with you, I’ll have
fun,” she says. Gray clouds are blowing in from the south. At a distance, the
inbound ferry and the outbound ferry meet. “Great! These guys are like family.”
Brian doesn’t have any siblings. “We can stop in Hoquiam on the way back so you
can introduce me to your parents.”
“Good idea.” Hoquiam is the last
place Francie wants to bring him. Not until they’re on more solid ground. But,
what can she say? My parents are on a round-the-world cruise? They never travel.
“Better go.” Brian puts his hand on
her waist, meaning head for the bedroom. “Or you’ll get back to the apartment
way too late.”Again! Francie shivers with the first drops of rain.~ ~ ~
On
a recent visit home, her sister, Colleen, like a child wishing to be a
princess, said, “Strange outfit but it sure looks cute.”
In
Annie Hall baggy pants,
suspenders, man’s shirt, and vest, Francie posed, before taking off her
slouch hat and giving a little twirl. Thanks to her Nordstrom employee
discount, she stays in style.
“You
can get away with it, flashing those dimples and big smile.” A wistful pause
before Colleen said, “I ran into Darrell. He asked for you…hasn’t married yet.”
“He’ll
make someone very happy.” Darrell, with his dirty-blond hair cut in a mullet
like every other guy in town, has earnest, blue eyes that show a girl he’ll never
treat her wrong.
“He’s
a manager at the mill.”
“No
surprise.” The Hoquiam Monster, mouth agape, lurked in a corner of Francie’s
mind.~ ~ ~
Next
morning, after a mere three hours sleep in her own bed, Francie goes through the
motions at work, trying not to nod off. Everything is falling into place.
First, her promotion to accountant. Then, meeting Brian.
One
lunch hour, shortly after recovering from a virus that almost forced her to move
back home, she was in the men’s department choosing a Father’s Day gift.
Someone nudged her and a male voice said, “Which do you like?”
Francie
turned, expecting to see Jeremy, the only salesman working. Instead, she stared
at one of the Italian silk ties she’d dismissed as too expensive and something
Dad would only wear to weddings and funerals, lying against a broad chest that
sure didn’t belong to skinny Jeremy. Crinkly, brown eyes and thick, brown hair,
neatly trimmed, filled in her first impression of Brian Willard. He held a
green polo shirt in one hand and a blue in the other. Francie pointed to the
green.~ ~ ~
Her
father has a head like Khrushchev’s and a temperament to match. She absolutely
does not want to marry a bald man, even though they’re supposed to be super
virile. Francie can’t imagine that with her parents. Maybe thirty years ago
before Mom drooped on every square inch of her body and developed a disposition
to match. When she used to bring up the idea of a job, Dad would say, “I want
my wife right here. Don’t want to go looking for her every time I need a button
sewed on or my pants pressed.” As a logger, he didn’t have a lot of call for
pressed pants. At barely twenty-six, Colleen lives in Hoquiam with three
children and another on the way. Her husband works at the mill. To Francie, the
town has become a hungry ocean creature waiting to swallow her alive.~ ~ ~
Friday
the thirteenth, in the dark, they arrive at the Tokeland Hotel. “Good thing you’re
not superstitious,” Brian had said. He didn’t know that even making love outside
the Sacrament of Marriage could summon up horrific images. As they pull onto
the dirt parking strip, Brian expertly maneuvers his green Z-car into place.
Francie notices three late-model vehicles in a scraggly row.
Brian
pushes open the ripped screen door, which squeaks like a mouse, and strides to
the scratched oak counter, where he dings a tarnished bell several times. When
no one appears he hits it a few more times. A dusty smell, like the attic at
home, makes Francie stifle a sneeze as she checks for rodents scurrying past
her platform shoes.
“All
right already, I’m coming,” a male voice hollers. Moments later, a big,
overall-clad guy bounds in, thunks a wrench onto the counter, and spreads his
hands across the wood. “Fixing a leak.” He grins.
“Franceen,
the lummox with the tool is Todd, owner of this fine hotel, and a sometimes
buddy of mine.”
“We’re
always tight.” Todd takes in Francie’s outfit, the same one her sister recently
admired. “Here, you can stick this in a pocket of those baggy pants.” He slides
the wrench toward her.
“She
looks cute.” Brian squeezes her shoulder.
“Just
kidding. C’mon, everybody’s waiting.”
Traipsing
up the steps and down a dark corridor, ancient floorboards groan accompanied by
a distant rock song and faraway voices. They pass several shut doors, aiming
for a stream of light at the end of the corridor. Getting closer, Francie picks
out words.
“…hell
are they?” a male says.
“I
told Brian as soon after six as possible,” a female says.
“Probably
stopped off at his place for a little party of their own.”
“Oh Aaron, shhh.” Then, stage-whispered,
“She’s…interesting. Do you suppose Brian’s found the one.”
“Tricia!
You be quiet too,” says another female.
Francie
stiffens, clutching Brian’s hand.
“Bunch
of jerks.” He laughs.
She
follows him into the room, worrying that despite the “cute” remark, her clothes
are all wrong. The three other girls wear jeans and sweatshirts. Francie slips
off her shoes and hat.
“Where
ya been?” demands Charlie Moorhead, a guy with wire-framed glasses who works at
his father’s stock brokerage. He often comments that since becoming a father he
has to settle down. The baby was left with his parents so he and his wife,
Kelly, could have this getaway.
Brian
makes an excuse about heavy traffic. He withholds that they did stop at his condo.
An
hour later, in what will be their room for the weekend, Charlie and Kelly, still
wearing what looks like a maternity top, lean against each other on an iron bed
amid a rumple of worn, pink chenille. Everyone else is plopped on battered
kitchen chairs or sprawled on the floor. Another joint’s glow circles the room.
Open coolers with beer and wine and Dreamsicles sit in a corner, with chips and
pretzels nearby. Brian and Francie didn’t take time for dinner, but the loud
radio camouflages her rumbling stomach.
“Remember
that funky place on Rosarita Beach—spring break—sophomore year?” Brian starts
another story. “We dragged booze in right under the manager’s nose.”
“Charlie almost drowned,” says Aaron
Petrie. He wears a Yankees cap. Since they entered the room, he’s been rubbing
in their win to Brian. Acting nonchalant, he’s also spoken about being “between
engagements,” living off a trust fund.
“Never
bodysurfed again.” Charlie winces.
“The
undertow almost carried him away,” says Georgie. She’s playing hostess to Todd’s
host, both of them replenishing snacks. Her apple-patterned apron is similar to
the ones Francie’s mother dons when cooking huge family dinners.
After
they continue with about the twentieth shared memory, Kelly, who once must have
been shapely but still carries extra weight after the baby’s birth, says, “Franceen,
are you bored to tears?”
“Not
at all. It’s interesting.” With no sorority sisters or adventures backpacking
through Europe, she listens to how people who didn’t work two jobs in order to
put themselves through college lived. Occasionally, she drops in a remark about
her own background, something they find amusing, especially as the evening
progresses and everyone gets more high. Besides a couple of light tokes, to not
draw attention, Francie has refrained, staying as clearheaded as she tries to
be when working on balance sheets. Looking toward Charlie and Kelly, she
remarks, “That whole setup—bedstead, bedspread—looks like my parents’.”
“Your
mother and father sleep in something like that?” Tricia Petrie tucks her
pointed chin.
“Just like it. Back in Hoquiam.”
“Hoq…what
a hoot, Hoq…Hoq…,” Charlie says.
“It’s
Ho-qui-am, dummy,” Kelly says. “You’re cut off.” Then, she holds the roach clip
to his lips. “I wish you would’ve been with us for those times, Franceen.”
She
doesn’t say, You’re more fun than Suzanne, but Francie’s sure that’s
what she means.
Encouraged,
she continues to regale them with family tidbits.
“Your
aunt actually did it with the landlord in order to get a new refrigerator?” Tricia
jerks up like a marionette.
“Town
gossip says she’d fuck anybody to get what she wanted.” Francie nearly chokes
on the word she never uses.
“Ohhh….”
Tricia slumps.
Georgie,
Kelly, and Tricia wear expressions of fatigued disbelief. The guys are beyond
caring, but the girls find Francie as fascinating as a sea serpent dropped into
their midst.
About
3:00 a.m., the other couples leave Charlie and Kelly’s room, straggling off to
bed. Kelly twiddles her pointer finger “good-bye” through a crack in their
wall, bringing on last giggles as the girls trip on by.
Brian
and Francie’s room doesn’t have any holes in the walls, but the bed is so
broken down that she dozes mid-valley. He sacks out in a sleeping bag beside
their door.
They
get up early, stiff-limbed. The guys speed through showers and give a
moldy-smelling communal bathroom over to the girls for scrubbing and primping.
After a quick rinse in icy water, Francie puts on a T-shirt and cutoffs. Dishes
clatter downstairs, and a crash sounds like logs falling. Shortly, a tap on the
door startles her dabbing lipstick in front of a mirror that makes her brown
eyes look right out of a Picasso. She turns the tarnished brass knob to check.
Each guy holds a mug of coffee. Brian kisses the top of her head before handing
over one.
“God,
do I need this,” Georgie takes several gulps.
“Me
too.” Francie takes a sip, hating the taste.
Squinting
above her steaming mug at the rusted fixtures and stained walls, Tricia, a
part-time employee at her mother’s furnishings boutique, says, “This reminds me
of bathrooms in the dorms.” She crinkles her narrow nose.
Francie
lived in the U’s dorms for two years before moving to an apartment with five
other girls. “There’s only one bathroom at home.” She pauses for effect. “With
my sister and me and Mom and Dad and lots of visiting family to use it. This
wallpaper may even have the same shell design.” She scratches her fingernail
over a peeling strip. The pale-pink polish still looks fresh.
“That
must have been hard.” Kelly frowns.
Georgie
and Tricia look stone-faced. This sort of banter played well with everyone
high. Not so, in the bright light of morning, with all of them bummed out.
Todd
and Georgie, wearing her apple-patterned apron, serve pancakes. They again
apologize for the state of the place, and together say, “Wait’ll next time.”
Goose
bumps cover Francie’s bare arms. Looking at the stacked logs in the fireplace,
she wishes someone would light them.
“I hope you don’t change too much.
It’s charming, and Franceen feels right at home here,” Tricia says.
Brian
pulls Francie, relieved as a tadpole darting into protective weeds, close
against his chest.
“How
kind of you to think of that, Pa-tree-sha,” Kelly says.
While
the others drink second and third mugfuls of coffee, plans are made to explore
Tokeland. Francie doesn’t say that shirttail relations, who refer to Hoquiam as
“the big city,” live close by.
“I
got a net and volleyball in my trunk,” Aaron says. “We can play and listen to
the Yankees win again.” He picks up the radio.
“No
way,” Brian says.
Everyone
agrees that the deserted beach, even though it’s overrun with clumps of grass,
sounds like a great idea. The golden autumn day, with a smell of ocean in the
air, makes them want to stay outside.
Once
set up, Aaron, repeatedly throws the ball and catches it, before saying, “We
could use a couple of girls.”
Tricia says, “You’ve got to be
kidding.”
Kelly
offers. “Maybe working up a sweat will chisel off a pound or two of this baby
fat.”
Georgie,
after looking toward Francie, says, “What the heck. I can play. Our picnic is
ready to go.”
Francie
could have volunteered. She used to be pretty good. Instead, she chooses to
listen to Tricia’s chatter rather than self-consciously stumbling around. Ten
minutes into her monologue, with hoots
and hollers from players in the background, and Francie yearns for a book.
Tricia goes on about another Theta married to a politician in California. After
thoroughly exhausting this subject, she says, “Does Brian hear anything from
Suzanne?”
Surprised,
Francie says, “He never talks about her.”
“She
was my roommate at The House. Don’t know why I care. Poor Brian. Such a bitch!”
“In
what way?”
“Had
an affair with his boss.” A smug smile tightens her mouth. “They’re getting married
in a few months,”
“His
boss?”
“That’s
why Brian left the bank. Suzanne’s still there. He’d become a vice president
too. Last thing he wanted to do was go back to work for his dad. Hasn't he told
you any of this?”
Francie
shrugs, taken aback at such a horrible aspect of his marriage, and it’s news to
her that he doesn’t like working for Willard Construction. The company has
almost completed another office building on Third. She thought he was excited
about it.
“He’s
ready to move on,” Tricia continues. “You’re nicer than Suzanne, and Brian
looks a whole lot happier.” Apparently done with gathering information, she
hollers, “Hey Georgie, isn’t it time for lunch?”
Francie
wishes for this part of the conversation to go on, but Georgie starts to divvy
up sandwiches.
In
the late afternoon, they head back. Todd says he can’t cook dinner because a
wedding party has reserved the hotel’s main room.
“A
reception? Here?” Tricia grimaces.
Todd
and Georgie exchange annoyed glances.
“Maybe this is a special place for
them. It’s got a lot of character,” Kelly says.
When
they enter the main room, leaving a trail of sand, Francie sees a table smack
in the middle of the cracked linoleum floor. A small wedding cake perches atop,
with paper plates, plastic forks, and napkins that look like they came from a
metal dispenser spread around it. Lumpy, threadbare sofas and dilapidated
rockers have been shoved against the walls. The fireplace, still set to be lit,
feels drafty and has the acrid smell of old smoke.
Tricia
says, “We should have a mock wedding.”
All
of a sudden, no one but Francie seems tired.
“You
be the bride,” Tricia points, “and Brian can be the groom since you two aren’t
married.” She mouths the word yet,
rolling her eyes.
“What
d’ya think?” Brian says.
“I
don’t care.” Maybe this will give him some ideas.
They
line up around the cake. Charlie holds an old logging manual open, like a
minister officiating. Behind Brian stands Aaron holding a broom like a shotgun,
a scowl on his sunburned face. Rather than doing a fake read, Charlie leers
over his wire frames at Francie’s T-shirt-covered chest. She thrusts it out for
the camera in Kelly’s hands. If they want to play this game, she’ll give them a
laugh. Their fun lasts for several minutes before boredom sets in and they all
lumber back to the rooms. Francie fixes the tipped plastic figures on the cake
before leaving.
That
night they drive to a nearby steak house. Georgie says, “This spot hasn’t heard
of medium rare, and most of the locals dump A.1. all over their meat, but we
can request it cooked the way we want.” After dinner and dancing to
music from the fifties, Todd gives Brian a ring of keys. “Make sure everything
is locked up tomorrow when you leave.” After that, he and Georgie take off for
Seattle to talk to their parents about further financing.
The
shadowed hotel looks solemn when the group returns. A dirty old pickup, that no
one but Francie seems to see, has been parked over to the side in order to give
their cars plenty of room. The cake and table have disappeared and the main-room
furniture shoved back in place. Last flickers of a fire remain. They move on to
Charlie and Kelly’s room, where again they play loud music while everyone talks
and laughs and smokes and drinks. Going strong after 3:00 a.m., Charlie says, “This
can’t end!” Early tomorrow it will be back to Seattle and grown-up lives.
In
the midst of Aaron’s next dirty joke, “Then a logger…,” the door across the
hall clicks open. A young man and an obviously pregnant young woman duck out.
The fellow, in a red plaid wool jacket, smiles uncertainly, sort of an
acknowledgment. The young woman burrows her face into his arm as they slink
away, his boots clunking.
“The
newlyweds!” Brian says. “Todd didn’t mention they were staying.”
“Who
would’ve thought they’d spend their first night at the Tokeland Hotel.” Tricia
yawns.
“Where
will they go?” Kelly says.
Francie
doesn’t tell them that, from a glimpse, the groom's ruddy face reminded her of Great
Uncle Rudy.
Sheepishly,
Charlie says, “I think it’s time we all go to bed.”
Brian’s last words from his sleeping
bag are, “I wish we could think of some way to make it up…. I’ll send a check….
Todd can give it to them.”
“Sure,”
Francie murmurs to his back. “A check.”~ ~ ~
The
rest of the night, she listens to Brian’s even breathing. With illumination
coming in through cracks around the door, she stares, wide-eyed in the gloom,
at the many-times-patched ceiling, recalling other patched ceilings.
She’s
first one in the bathroom next morning, getting ready to go. During the drive,
she stays quiet. Brian carries on about the Series and his frustration with the
Dodgers, and then asks, “Are you feeling all right?”
“Tired.”
“Understandable.
We’ll skip stopping by your parents’ place this time, and get you back to my
bed.” He reaches over and rubs her inner thigh. “You have to start staying all
the time.”Passed muster with his friends,
Francie thinks.
When
she doesn’t say anything, he says, “You know...move in.”
“Let’s
talk about it later. I need a night, alone, at my apartment.”
“Okay.
And about your parents...I’ll be moving down to Tokeland in the next month.
Going into partnership with Todd and Georgie. So, after we get married you’ll
be over this way all the time.”
Francie
squints her eyes and leans her head against the seat, as the Hoquiam Monster
slides closer, wearing a smirk on its slimy face.

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